Rose is a tricky flavor to work with; it is usually applied in its distilled liquid form and a few drops is all you need. It overpowers quickly, consuming your palate and, if you’re not prudent, it can leave you feeling overwhelmed. Giddy, even.

The carriage is redolent with it’s scent. It’s particularly pungent for me because I’m next to the source.

She is sat, leaning forward, head bowed, over the flip down tray in front of her. Every thirty seconds or so, with a delicate flick of her little finger and a pinch of index and thumb, she hovers, selects and then delivers a nugget of Turkish delight to her impatient plump tongue; each gelatinous cube leaving a trace of icing sugar on her lips.

“Mmm.. I lo-ooo-ve pistachio…” she fires across my bow, before swilling her mouth with mineral water and smiling, a fragment of the aforementioned nut lodged resolutely in her front teeth.

Framed against the miserable grey suburbs rolling past the window, her beauty is illuminated.

Natural, unpretentious and laced with the merest promise of decay. Although, I notice her perfume is unpleasant; a strange, sour blend of spray tan and samosas.

Her hands are exquisite. The graceful lines of her wrists don’t disappoint, leading to slender, tapering fingers tipped with a burgundy polish.

Oddly, her every other anatomical feature possesses a most intriguing quality. In fact, one similar to the very confectionery she is consuming now. Turkish delight is always fashioned into slightly misshapen, bloated cubes and she, too, has this burgeoning, retentive design. It’s commensurate with her youth and her glucose consumption, I guess.

Her pert, full breasts strain against the cloth of her top, imprisoned against their will by a black lace bra.

They would release themselves, if they could, I know it, in a riot of common sense.

I journey to the lowlands, the prairie of the ego and begin a sojourn familiar to most males of a certain age when faced with young flesh; a place where time slows to a frame per second or less, where myriad fantasies gallop unfettered, like wild mustangs.

“Yes. Yes, I would, thank you.” I say, smiling and managing to briefly lift my gaze, first to her eyes and then to the hexagonal box of rubbery nubs she’s wafting in front of me.

In a turn of events that I can’t truly remain blameless for, my hand reaches toward the box but skims over the sweets, diving purposefully between the light white cotton of her top and her warm soft skin. Soon, I feel the coarse webbing of her bra grating against the back of my fingers.

I don’t break her stare, her pupils dilate and her jaw slackens, moving almost imperceptibly up and down as I squeeze, her nipple hardening between my thumb and forefinger.

After just the right amount of time, I slowly remove my hand, returning it to my lap. We are still locked deeply, eye to eye.

She looks down and arranges her clothes in silence; time has slowed again, she is being deliberately deliberate, playing with me.

She places the box back on the tray. The elegant crane hovers again, eventually choosing and delivering a piece to me this time.

The soapy skin taste of her thumb works well, I think, supplying another dimension to the orange blossom flavor; she then slowly withdraws it, allowing me to suck clean the powdery residue. She feeds me a few more, delicately, in her measured way.

It’s a memorable experience, particularly fun. At one point, whilst demolishing a dusty lemon blob, she kisses me and for a moment I can’t tell what is sweet and what is tongue; the flavors intensifying with every laborious chew.

Together, we finish the box and sit for a while, licking our fingers and lips.

With a giggle, she lays her hand on my knee and leans in and whispers,
“Hi, I’m Rose.”